


Love, Your Crooked Neighbor

by gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Give Hux a Raise 2K18, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Meet Not-Terribly-Cute, Oh No He's Hot (TM), Pre-Canon, Soft Kylux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/gaolcrowofmandos
Summary: When Snoke assigned Hux to bring in his newest asset, Hux was expecting some everyday Coruscanti underworlder on a low-profile Core World. Predictable. Routine.What he gets is a burning compound on a nameless hunk of rock, a confused young pseudo-Sith, and oh, yeah. Feelings.





	Love, Your Crooked Neighbor

What Hux understood to be a routine asset collection mission has begun to look more and more like an extraction. As the planet's terrain - all green grass and hills, soft under white moonlight - loses its graininess through the Upsilon-class's viewport, Hux finds the ground obscured by a pall of black smoke that not even the ship's underbelly of C-beams can penetrate.  
  
"How far are we from the target coordinates?" He bends over the control screen on the console, examines the blinking red crosshairs denoting the geolocation Snoke provided.  
  
"Under ten kilometers, Lieutenant-General," replies the pilot. "We should touch down in about three minutes." She keeps her gaze on the viewport as they lose altitude.  
  
"And it appears we're heading toward the source of the smoke?" A thin but assertive haze of it is starting to cover the transparisteel.  
  
"Unfortunately, sir," says one of the navigators. "Thermal scanners are picking up a heat source within meters of our trajectory."  
  
"Thank you, Officer."  
  
Fucking terrific.  
  
Hands clasped behind his back, Hux drums his fingers idly against his knuckles. Of course Snoke's newest ~~jackass asshole~~ asset would be awaiting pick-up in a system clear on the other side of the galaxy. Of course said ass would be on the nightside of the planet, leaving Hux to conduct operations on unknown terrain in the dark. And of course the planet--or at least the relevant part of it--would be on fire. Of course.

Welcome to insurgency. Where nothing is easy. Ever.  
  
Hux had hoped that his latest promotion (just two standard weeks old) would spell the end of his occasional function as Snoke's interplanetary trash collector, but he's been given this particular assignment due to the "sensitive and high-profile nature” of the target. But high-profile, really? On this desolate rock of a world? Unlikely, unless he’s some kind of top-wanted arsonist. (Just what the Order _doesn't_ need.)

“Touchdown in two minutes, sir.”

As the shuttle makes its final descent, the Upsilon-class clears enough of the smoke that Hux can see the planet’s surface again, mere meters below. Can see fissure-riddled ground pocked with dark patches that must be dead grass. Can see the charred skeletons of wooden structures, scattered across the chaparral as if torn down plank by plank. And dead ahead, looming larger by the second, is the blaze itself.

Red-orange flames curl around the dark silhouette of a domed building, or well, what’s left of one. The dome is fire-tarnished, dull, and half-collapsed, jagged edges jutting into the inferno.

Snoke didn’t mention this. Any of this. Hux thanks the stars Phasma and half a squadron of troopers are behind in a second shuttle. He’d brought them mostly for intimidation purposes, to be called upon if necessary, but now it’s looking like they could be landing in the middle of a firefight, or a raid.

Hux extracts his comlink from the pocket of his greatcoat, inputs Phasma’s frequency. Her bluish outline crackles to life in his palm.

“Lieutenant-General?” The connection fizzles a bit.

“Captain, go ahead and disembark with your men.” The shuttle hits the ground with a jolt, and Hux grips the console to steady himself. “The ground situation looks...ambiguous. We may need the back-up.” He speaks for himself and the two intel officers in the hold.

“Understood, sir. I’ll await further orders on the ground.”

“Good. Hux out.” He disconnects, and with an order to the nav team to stay in place, heads for the hold and the hatch.

Opan and the junior officer with him (some linguist--Hux doesn’t know her name, but he also doesn’t know if the asset speaks Basic) are waiting in the half-light of the hold. At Hux’s nod, Opan taps a switch, and the hatch hisses open, durasteel ramp extending to clamp into the ground.

A burst of heat rushes into the shuttle, and Hux shrugs his greatcoat onto one of the benches before squaring his shoulders and leading the way down the ramp and onto the ground. Beside his own shuttle, Phasma’s is landing with a crunch, stirring up a column of brown dust amid the smoke.

The acrid stench of burning wood, metal, and something distinctly organic sets Hux coughing for a moment. He covers his nose lightly, breathing into his glove as he surveys the scene.

There isn’t much more to see down here than from the air. If anything, the smoke is thicker and darker, as they’ve landed perhaps ten meters from the epicentere of the blaze. No visible life forms, but a long and agonized shriek punctures the roar and crackle of the fire.

What the hell _is_ this place? Hux draws his blaster, switches off the safety. His officers do the same.

“We’ll rendezvous with the troopers first,” he says, “then disperse into search parties. I imagine the primary asset will come to us, but we may need to clear any hostiles. The Supreme Leader also mentioned the asset may have- _contemporaries_ that should be brought in separately, so--”

“They may not be so easy to locate,” Opan interrupts.

“Precisely.” A silver flash in Hux’s periphery calls his attention--Phasma, first on the ground, followed by her troopers, whose armor catches the moonlight. They look luminous, both eerie and absurd.

The three officers cross the space between the shuttles, picking their way over cracked wooden beams and freshly charred earth. Phasma nods her acquiescence to Hux’s updated orders, and begins barking her own at the troopers. They split back, left, and right to scour the perimeter of the fire damage, leaving the officers to advance toward the domed structure.

Abruptly, another piece of the dome cracks and collapses, shooting orange sparks out of the blaze as it falls. The smoke grows thicker with every cautious step forward. There are no more screams--no more signs of life--until Hux’s foot catches on something softer than wood.

The body of a child stares glassily up at him; drying blood plasters a thin braid to her cheek. A black gash like a massive burn crosses her chest--clearly the cause of death. He hasn’t seen a wound like that outside a textbook. No blood, instantly cauterized.

Oh, _shit_ .  
  
He’s about to raise his voice to alert Opan and the interpreter when an arc of blue light streaks across his periphery. He lifts his blaster, gloved finger on the trigger. The smoke is thick enough to obscure the source of the light, and for a moment Hux sees nothing but a floating blue point, like a homing device. Then a silhouette takes shape through the smoke, blue beam—fine, blade; Hux can admit it—diagonal now, somewhat elevated.  
  
Within seconds the shadow has materialized into a humanoid figure with the blade in an attack stance, then into a breathless young man in torn clothes.

“What is this?” His voice quivers, and so do his hands, making the blade look unsteady, half-flickering.

Hux appraises him before answering: tousled hair, soot stains on his face and fingers, bloodshot eyes. Good gods, he’s barefoot.

“Kylo Ren?” Hux says, with half-contrived weariness. His blaster remains pointed and cocked.

The man hesitates for just a moment too long, then blinks and finally nods. “Yes,” he says softly, then swallows. He repeats it louder, with a veneer of confidence: “Yes.”

Hux raises his eyebrows, but lowers the blaster. “Are you certain about that?”

“Of course.” The man’s--Ren’s--grip on the blade tightens, then--in a sweep like an unnatural meteor--he levels it toward Hux’s chest. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here?”

Hux takes a reflexive step backward. Behind him, he hears Opan and the linguist approaching. Hoping they’ll follow suit, Hux replaces his blaster at his hip and slowly raises his hands.

“I am Lieutenant-General Hux of the First Order,” he says. “I’m here to retrieve you on behalf of Supreme Leader Snoke.”

“Snoke?” Ren echoes. He looks Hux up and down, eyes darting like a hunted thing. “Snoke sent you?”

“As I have just indicated.”

Ren appears to consider this, closes his eyes for a moment. Then his hands stop trembling. “He did,” he says, visibly relaxing. “He did. Good.”

With a twitch of his finger, the blade disappears, then his arms fall to his sides. The fingers of his right hand go slack, and the hilt falls to the ground with a dull thump. A small cloud of dust rises briefly above it.

“You’re to take me to him.”

Hux can’t mistake his tone for a question, but he’ll treat it like one. He just announced his rank--apparently it’ll take more than that to establish it. He lowers his hands and assumes parade rest. “Yes, that’s correct,” he says, tone clipped. “Are there any others who should be escorted with you, or only hostiles?”

Ren’s gaze flit to the ground under long, dark lashes, breaking eye contact with Hux for the first time. “Just a few kids, maybe five or six. They aren’t important. They were just too afraid to stand against me.” He traces his toes through the dust and ash.

A half-dozen kids afraid to fight a man with a lightsaber. Makes sense. Hux is missing some context here. Clearly. It rankles, but whatever. He’ll get it out of Ren once they get into hyperspace.

“They can be eliminated, then?” Hux offers.

Ren looks back up, gaze somehow both hardened, and shimmering with what must be tears. Either that or the smoke is bothering him. “No,” he says, sharply. “I’ll let Snoke decide.”

Snoke. No title. That’s the third time, and maybe Hux should correct him. He doesn’t, though (for now, anyway).

“Very well,” Hux replies. “My orders were to bring you first, separately, on my Star Destroyer-” ‘ _my’,_ that has a lovely ring to it, even if it isn’t strictly true- “with any companions to follow on a shuttle. My Stormtroopers are currently conducting reconnaissance. Should they bring in anyone who surrenders?”

Ren tilts his head to one side, then nods. “There’s no one left alive who wouldn’t.”

“Well, that certainly simplifies matters.” Hux adds bluntness to the mental profile he’s building of the asset (the contents of which thus far include hair that might look better without a dusting of ash on it).  
  
Ren makes no response and stares back down at his feet.  
  
Hux turns to Opan a meter or so behind him. “Alert Phasma we’ve acquired the target and will be leaving planetside shortly.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Opan dutifully extracts his comlink.

Hux addresses Ren again as Opan’s connection crackles to life. “Are there any personal effects you’ll need to collect?”

Glancing back up, Ren shakes his head. “No,” he says, tone unmistakably yet inexplicably defiant. His gaze strays over Hux’s shoulder, to the rubble of the rest of the compound. “There’s nothing.” His teeth worry his lower lip.

The lightsaber still lies on the ground beside him, partially wedged in a crack in the scorched earth. He makes no move to retrieve it, and Hux isn’t crazy enough to encourage him to.

“In that case,” Hux says, “we won’t keep the Supreme Leader waiting.” He nods toward the Upsilon-class, its dark wings erect like a swooping bird of prey. Ren silently mirrors his nod, and they make for it, flanked by the officers, picking their way through the debris.

The hatch hisses open once the four stand outside it, and Hux collects his greatcoat from the bench, letting Opan lead the way out of the hold.

“There’s a small refresher here, if you’d like to clean up.” Hux indicates a nondescript door along the shuttle’s short main corridor, and runs his eyes up and down Ren’s frame once more. The unforgiving white light shows out raw skin on his hands and a couple of black burn marks on his neck, and exaggerates the stains on his tattered white tunic. “No sonic, I’m afraid. That and a change of clothes will have to wait until we’re back on the _Finalizer_.”

“That’s fine,” Ren says hollowly, looking at the fresher door, and pointedly not at Hux. He makes quick use of the uncoded entry pad beside it and disappears as the doors iris open, then shut behind him.

Hux lingers in the corridor until the shuttle has broken atmosphere, unsure what he’s waiting for.

* * *

Kylo Ren cleans up somewhat decently. Hux will give him that much. A little over a standard hour later, he finds himself seated across from the young man - the possible arsonist - Snoke’s asset (most importantly) in his own office on the _Finalizer._

He’d considered borrowing Peavey's for the occasion--larger, more impressive--but decided his own space would be more comfortable. He has access to the other, though--he’s in temporary command while the ship’s commanding officer attends a war game summit. (He’d be more frosted by the lack of invitation if interim command weren’t so damn much _fun._ Even when it means getting stuck as Snoke’s errand boy.)

Ren, however, has gotten the ash out of his hair. (And, well - there may _possibly_ be worse ways to serve the Order than by briefing him.)

“Tea?" Hux takes a sip out of his mug and gestures to the power kettle, box of Tarine bags beside it (a perk of being in his own office).

Kylo Ren shakes his head, looking not quite at but through Hux. His eyes are vacant, distant, red-rimmed, like a poorly adjusted officer after his first lost skirmish. At least he's out of those soot-stained rags now, but the borrowed black uniform they've been replaced with only brings out his pallor.

Some tea might actually revive him, but Hux doesn't press. His personal supply is limited, after all.

"Very well then," Hux continues, flicking open his datapad and opening his personnel application. "Supreme Leader Snoke tasked me with your indoc brief after collecting you. Before I begin, can you verify your clearance level?"  
  
"Clearance level?" Hux glances up, and Ren's brow is furrowed. "What do you mean?"  
  
Hux sighs. "The sensitivity of the information to which you're allowed to have access. Basically, can you view material that is classif--"  
  
"I know what a clearance _is_ , Lieutenant-General."  
  
"What a relief." Hux pops his lips and makes sure not to roll his eyes. "Then you should be aware it's protocol for defectors to receive one. Didn't Snoke issue you some access level during your recruitment process?"  
  
"No," says Ren, more firmly than he's said anything in his and Hux's brief acquaintance. "I'm under the impression that my recruitment process was... somewhat unusual."  
  
Aren't most turncoats? Hux scoffs. "Nevertheless," is what he says, delicately professional, "I'm sure there's one attached to your asset profile." He clicks the search bar on his screen; a blue cursor winks up at him. "Kylo Ren. Is that spelled--"  
  
Ren cuts him off, spelling it tersely. Hux, however, can hear a quiver somewhere around his lips. It's an odd name - theatrical, or even mythological in form. Bizarrely, this is the second time tonight it's seemed to scare the man.  
  
"'Your query matched no results,'" Hux reads after a moment. He looks up, meets Ren's gaze. "Is there any alternate name, any kind of alias you might be filed under?"  
  
Kylo Ren gnaws his lip; his gaze falls to his lap. Hux notices a missed smudge of soot along his jawline, a little black streak like stale warpaint. He's silent for a solid minute, staring at his hands.  
  
"Is there?" Hux prods. Ren's hair has fallen in his face, but his harsh swallow is still visible.  
  
"Ben," he says, without looking up. "Try Ben."  
  
"Ben what?" Hux replies, petulantly. "I'm going to need more than three characters to search."  
  
"Solo."  
  
The word - the name - blazes through Hux's brain, igniting a red-hot trail of questions in its wake. That's- that isn't a common name.  
  
"Solo?" he echoes. He lets his right hand fall from the desktop and toward the blaster under his greatcoat.  
  
"Or Solo-Organa." Ren - or whatever Hux is supposed to call him now - raises his head. His voice has taken on a certain venom. "Or Organa-Solo. Whatever. Could be entered either way."  
  
Solo. Organa. What the _fuck_ was this significant of a target doing in a burning compound on some backwater world? And more importantly: what the fuck is he doing alone, unarmed yet unguarded, in Hux's office? Hux sits motionless for a moment, fingers settling around his blaster.  
  
His guest takes a turn at prodding. "Aren't you going to look me up?"  
  
"I can assure you," Hux says, clearing his throat, "that name is listed nowhere in our databases. I'll need verbal confirmation from Leader Snoke before you can receive anything of substance."  
  
"Why?" There's heat in his tone. "I'm Snoke's apprentice, I should get to--"  
  
"Because I'm not about to divulge highly sensitive security information to the son of two Rebellion heroes before my superior has verified your identity."  
  
"You just said you're aware I'm a defector."  
  
"This is a highly atypical case." Unusual recruitment process, indeed. Hux hates to admit it, but it must have been the Force. There's no military, political, or even _material_ way Snoke could have gotten this kind of access. "Your briefing will have to wait until I've made contact with the Supreme Leader, which I can't attempt while we're in Republic space."  
  
"What-- no.” Ren leans slightly forward. “So you’re just going to keep me in the dark until then?"  
  
"I'm sure the Supreme Leader's given you at least enough information to get by on." In reality, the Supreme Leader's probably been feeding him counterintelligence, but Hux doesn't mention this.  
  
"We don't... We don't talk security issues much," Ren says. His hands are back on the desktop, curling into raw-knuckled fists.  
  
"Really." Hux doesn't ask what they do talk about. He takes a sip of tea as Ren's eyes flicker dangerously. He opts to placate. "What do you know about the First Order, then?"  
  
"I- I know you're an organization founded on the principles of the Galactic Empire."  
  
"Very good."  
  
"And that you're seeking to restore Imperial governance."  
  
Hux can neither confirm nor deny, so he raises an eyebrow. "Anything else?"  
  
"I know you need users of the dark side of the Force. That's why I'm here." Oh, good. A religious fanatic.  
  
"We certainly appreciate that," Hux says, blase.  
  
"And I know you're going to bring freedom to the Galaxy."  
  
"Freedom." Hux lets his lip curl, just a little. "That's an interesting choice of term." And a suspicious one - Solo certainly didn't get it from any official Order sources. But then again, who knows what Snoke's said to entice him?  
  
"Freedom from the Republic, I mean," the young man caveats. His hands have relaxed slightly, and his eyes pore over Hux's face. It's unsettling.  
  
"That's nearer the mark." Hux shrugs, then stands and heads for the duranium cabinet in the corner of the office. He presses his thumb to the bioreader, and it hisses open. "We'll get you some unclassified reading materials in the meantime."  
  
He pilfers through a couple of files before extracting three sheets of flimsiplast, then returns to his seat and shoves them across the desk at Ren. Ren's barely perused them before: "You're giving me a bunch of propaganda I could have found on the HoloNet?"  
  
"Clearly you _didn't_ find it."  
  
"This isn't what Snoke had in mind." Ren's voice rises. "He wouldn't want you to throw some flimsi at me like a schoolboy. This is _degrading_ . I'm--"  
  
"The Supreme Leader’s apprentice." Hux snorts. "I'm aware. My protocols still stand."  
  
"You won't even give me a fucking datapad."  
  
"I can't give you access to any secure systems before Snoke's confirmed that the 'Kylo Ren' he sent me for is actually Leia Organa's son." Hux gestures with his left hand, his right back on the blaster. "What do you need a datapad for, anyway? How can I know you won't send your Republic contacts this ship's location and any information you've acquired on its features, Ben Solo?"  
  
"Because I don't have any fucking Republic contacts - and that isn't my fucking name!" Ren leaps up, eyes blazing, hand scrabbling at his side, clearly fumbling for a nonexistent weapon.

Hux follows suit and draws his blaster, pointing it two-handed at Solo's chest. "Sit down then, _Kylo Ren_ ." The name he adds with saccharine mockery.  
  
Ren doesn't. "I'd drop that blaster, Lieutenant-General."  
  
"Sit. Down."  
  
A strange half-smile spreads over the man's features, and he raises an empty hand, flicks his wrist.  
  
Hux's fingers go nerveless. In the span of a second, there's a blast of cold, a blast of heat, then numbness. He can't feel his hands. His blaster clatters to the desktop, landing on the flimisplast he just passed Ren. His arms fall to his sides; the feeling in his fingers returns.  
  
He finds his heart pounding madly, erratically. His hands shake with futile, belated adrenaline. He can’t keep his voice from shaking as he murmurs, "What the _fuck_ was that?"  
  
Ren smirks. "I know you need users of the dark side of the Force." He gives an exaggerated shrug, stretching the creases of the uniform. "I'd take the blaster, but I don't need it to hurt you."  
  
Hux can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. "I'm sure your new Master would be less than impressed if you damaged his liaison," he manages. "Not the best first impression."  
  
"I don't know," says Ren. "He never mentioned you." Hux imagines the last bit is supposed to sound belittling, but instead it comes out in an almost hurt tone. Ren's gaze flicks to the floor.  
  
"Oh," Hux says, regaining a bit of composure as the pieces click together. “You thought he would come for you personally."  
  
Ren looks back up. The fire is gone from his eyes, washed over once more by emptiness. His eyes are fascinating somehow, for all their melancholy, and dark enough to drown in. He shakes his head.  
  
"No," he says. "I couldn't presume. I would never--" He ends abruptly, uncertainly. His eyes shimmer suddenly under the chemical lighting.  
  
Oh gods, if he's going to _cry_ \--

“Sit down,” Hux tries again, this time more gently. It’s the tone he always uses with new recruits (never mind that those tend to be no older than ten). “I’ll...tell you what I can while I try to get through to the Supreme Leader.” Kylo Ren eyes him warily, appearing to reconsider the chair.

“If-” Hux holds up a finger. “--we make this a fair exchange. You convince me you’re a legitimate defector, you get information on the Order.”

“Or I could just get inside your head and make you talk.” Ren tilts his head to one side.

“And incur the Supreme Leader’s wrath once he finds out you probed my mind for sensitive information?” Hux gestures to the seat across from him. “That’ll certainly assure him of your loyalty.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything about me.”

“No, you don’t,” Hux agrees. “I’ll notify you as soon as I’ve verified your accesses with Leader Snoke. In the meantime, you’re welcome to return to your guest suite. I’m--” He pauses, assesses the lost look predominating the man’s features. “--sure you have a lot to think about. It might be nice to be alone in the quiet.”

“ **_No_ ** ,” Ren replies with force, too quick, so quick he dips his head, cheeks coloring slightly. Hux was right. (He knows the look of a man with demons.) “No,” he repeats, with more dignity, “I’m...happy to learn what I can for the moment.”

“Excellent.” Hux smiles faintly, and they both sit. Hux wants to grab the blaster and replace it in its holster, but thinks better of it. It lies on the desk between them, a symbol of uneasy truce.

“I’ll go ahead and start reaching out to Snoke,” Hux continues, flicking to the comlink application on his datapad. “We’re almost to the Outer Rim. It’s safe to at least _attempt_ an encrypted call from here.” He inputs his passcode and lets the signal start calibrating. “Are you sure you don’t want any tea?”

Ren considers this, looking sidelong at the blue box beside the kettle. “Is it caffeinated?”

“Of course,” Hux says, letting his tone lighten. “That’s the first cardinal rule of insurgency: everyone is running on stimulants.”

Ren snorts, and his lips turn up a bit. That might be as good as a laugh. “Then by all means, initiate me.”

“Certainly.” Hux bends to open a desk drawer and extract a second mug. He fills it with steaming water, then shoves it with the box of tea across the desk.

Ren opens a packet of tea and drops the bag into his mug with a quaint sort of delicateness, as if he’s unused to it. “Thank you.” He pushes the box back toward Hux.

“You’re welcome.” Hux wordlessly grabs the discarded packet from in front of Ren and tosses it in the waste bin by his feet. Ren tenses slightly as Hux reaches past the blaster, but quickly relaxes again. “You get to talk first, while your tea brews,” says Hux.

“What do you want to know?” Ren’s holding the mug with both hands, like he’s cold. (It’s almost pitiable.)

_Everything_ , obviously. Hux doesn’t cope well with unsolved variables. He’d better start small, though.

“Why was that compound on fire?” He takes a swig out of his own mug. “Or should I ask _what_ was the compound at all?”

“A Jedi temple and academy,” says Ren, flatly.

“A what?” Hux sets his mug down, trying not to laugh. “It’s common knowledge that religion’s dead.”

“Not to my-- I mean, to Luke Skywalker.”

_My uncle_ , he must have meant to say. Fascinating. But strategy first:

“If Skywalker, a presumed enemy of the Order, was planetside when my squad landed, why didn’t you mention this at the time?” Hux fishes again, as nonchalant as possible. He adds, perhaps less than truthfully, who knows, ‘He would have made a valuable capture.”

Ren gnaws his lip, stares down into the steam still curling out of his mug. “Skywalker’s... _neutralized.._?”

Hux can hear the question, as if he’s trying out the word. “We prefer the term _dead_ ,” he says. “Go on.”

“No,” Ren says immediately. “My turn.” He gives Hux a slightly pained look, then asks, “Where are we going? Besides to deliver me to Snoke. Geographically speaking, where?”

“Snoke’s flagship, the _Supremacy_. Even at lightspeed we’re currently about--” Some numbers cartwheel through Hux’s head. “--twelve hours out. Like most of the Order, he’s based in the Unknown Regions.”

Ren swirls the mug, fiddles with the tag attached to the teabag. The sharp aroma of it has begun to permeate the air between them.“Not so unknown, then…”

“Not really, no.” Hux knows bait when he hears it, but he’ll take the risk. “We’ll probably rename them to something more equitable once the Order’s in firmer control. Most of the beings out there see ‘Unknown Regions’ as a bit of a write-off from your Republic.”

“Not mine,” says Ren quickly.

“Glad to hear that.” Hux glances at his datapad--still says _Loading Connection_ , four thin blue bars flickering in and out. “How did Skywalker die?” Hux can guess, but still.

Ren’s knuckles whiten against the durasteel of the mug, but he makes no other sign. “I brought down a dwelling on him.”

“Fuck _.”_ That was...more graphic than expected. Hux purses his lips, hoping he looks more impressed than horrified. “Why?”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Understandable.” Hux means it.

Before he can open his mouth to ask ‘ _why?_ ’ again, Ren’s taken a sip of tea, and is wincing over the rim of the mug. His throat (all delicate skin and fine muscle) works as he swallows. Nose still slightly wrinkled, he lowers the mug. “Don’t you have any sugar?”

“No.”

“Synthsweet?”

“No.”

Ren grimaces. “This stuff is awful.”

“It grows on you.” Hux shrugs and tags a long sip. “Why did your unc--” The slip is deliberate, and Ren’s expression takes on a sort of shadow. “--did _Skywalker_ want to kill you?”

“I don’t kn--” Ren starts, voice tight, like talking around a lump in his throat. “Wait--it’s my turn.”

“You asked about the tea.” Hux smirks.

“That doesn’t count,” Ren insists. The tenseness is gone from his voice, and his eyes are a little brighter.

“Of course it counts,” Hux returns, fixing his tone before it turns too coquettish. “But given that you already half-answered, go ahead and ask me.” Never mind how _I don’t know_ is a bantha-shit answer to that kind of question. Hux lets him win. He’ll try again later, more tactfully.

“How did you find me?” Ren asks, taking another tentative sip of the tea and swallowing quickly.

“The Supreme Leader provided the coordinates of your location. He must have acquired them with the Force, since you didn’t transmit them, obviously. I thought that was your purview.” Hux drains his mug. “These aren’t the kind of questions I’d be asking if I were new to an organization.”

Ren’s holding the mug close to his lips, wincing. He clears his throat. “What would you be asking, then?”

“I’d want to know about its structure, its history, its goals…”

“Wouldn’t you just tell me that’s all classified?” There’s something almost teasing in Ren’s tone.

Hux lifts his eyebrows, tries for an ambivalent air. “Possibly.”

“Alright,” says Ren. “How many ships are in your fleet?”

Hux’s own smile surprises him. “My turn,” he says.

The corners of Ren’s full lips twitch upward. “Point taken?”

Hux says nothing, but smiles a moment longer before pressing ahead: “How did you become acquainted with Supreme Leader Snoke?”

Ren’s expression transforms in an instant--lips a thin line, eyes darkened--like a viewport being shuttered. “Dreams,” he says.

“Dreams.” Hux manages not to roll his eyes. It’s always less than settling to be reminded he works for a mystic. “What kind?”

“What _kind_?”

“Nightmares, pleasant, spice-induced…?” Even the lattermost option doesn’t return the almost-smile to Ren’s face. That shouldn’t be disappointing.

“Real.”

More monosyllables. Charming.

“Real dreams,” Hux echoes, deadpan. “Alright, then.”

Ren angles his chin upward, ever so slightly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Evidently.” Hux shrugs. It’s a million questions or none, and metaphysics isn’t worth the effort. “I surrender then,” he says, with a dismissive, shooing sort of gesture. “Your turn.”

Ren blinks at him over the rim of the mug. “How did _you_ become acquainted with Snoke?”

“You want to know how he built his military,” Hux deduces. “Finally a decent question, but no less sensitive than the size of the fleet--”

“Okay.” Ren cuts him off. “Then I want to know about _you_.”

Hux scoffs. If he had the legal authority, he’d classify the whole damn sob story right on the spot, then simper and apologize that that, too, was top secret. As it is, however, he’ll summarize: “My family has Imperial connections. Snoke’s in the market for disgruntled former bureaucrats.”

Ren’s quiet for a moment, then his full lips part wordlessly, in an _oh_ of realization. “ _Brendol Hux_ ,” he says, like tracing constellations to make sense of a cluttered starmap. “Palpatine’s child collector.”

No use denying the connection. “His flesh and blood.” Hux raises his mug in a farce-toast, and would change the subject.

Ren, however, is faster: “So is your...position similar to his?”

“To some extent,” Hux replies, reaching for another teabag. “But I’m considerably more operational.” He tears the packet and sets the bag in the mug.

“You like that,” Ren says. It isn’t a question.

“Usually,” Hux says with a half-smile, refilling the mug with water. His next question could go several fruitful directions from here--and all without sounding terribly unnatural. (Why is _that_ important, this is all but an interrogation.) He clears his throat. He’ll go with the most obvious: “And what’s to be the nature of _your_ position in the organization?”

Ren’s response is instantaneous, rote. He would sound half a droid, if it weren’t for the unmistakable pride in his tone. “I’m to bring balance to the Force and vanquish the Light.”

To Hux’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. “Ah,” he manages, nodding. “I’m sure that’s...very necessary. But what does it look like _operationally_?”

Ren frowns--at the question, at Hux’s unimpressed tone, maybe just at the tea--but the dark thing crosses his face again, the look of retreat. “Snoke hasn’t fully briefed me yet,” he says, sounding careful. “But I have extensive combat training using the Force. I have… certain abilities that will be useful for interrogations. My Force-sensitivity lends itself to strategic insight...I understand Huttese and binary...”

“Always useful.” Hux only remarks on the latter. “Anything else in your portfolio?”

Ren hesitates, pursing his lips briefly. “I’m a pilot.”

“I’m not surprised.” _Given your name._ Hux blows on his tea. Ren says nothing.

Maybe he’s formulating a question, maybe he’s lost in his own brain again-- Hux is about to ask him what exactly Snoke _has_ told him about his responsibilities, when the datapad chimes. Oh.

Right.

Snoke.

(It would have been easier to keep forgetting.)

_TRANSMISSION RECEIVED_ flashes across the screen, along with Snoke’s name and frequency.

“We must be in range,” Hux tells Ren. Ren’s eyes have widened slightly. He swallows. Hux stands and taps the screen to connect.

Snoke’s face materializes in the space above the datapad. Cast blue, the Supreme Leader’s mottled skin resembles a rocky landscape; his sunken features, those of a rotting corpse.

“Lieutenant-General,” he says in his half-whisper. There’s a perilous edge to it, though, which sets Hux’s fingers fidgeting behind his back. “I trust you aren’t reaching out with bad news.”

“I hope not, Supreme Leader.” Hux tears at a hangnail. “I’m seeking...clarification..on an aspect of my assignment.”

“Elaborate,” says Snoke, “please.”

Hux clears his mind of the past hour’s conversation, and his throat on principle. "I have a young man in my office who has positively identified himself as Ben Solo, alias Kylo Ren. Given the..." Hux fumbles through a dozen synonyms for _huge fucking security risk_. "...potential implications of recruiting someone of that name, I wanted to confirm his identity with you, Supreme Leader, before proceeding with his indoc."

"My asset is Kylo Ren.” The edge to Snoke’s voice is distinctly more pronounced. “There _is_ no one by the name of Ben Solo, Lieutenant General. That person no longer exists."  
  
_What._ Hux swallows a litany of questions, of protests. "My apologies, Supreme Leader. I must have the wrong target. I--"  
  
Snoke interrupts: "Let me see him."  
  
Ren's posture immediately stiffens, and he stands. He clenches his hands at his sides, works the fingers open and shut. Hux turns the datapad toward him. He bows his head in lieu of making eye contact with Snoke's holo.  
  
"My Master," he murmurs, with a tremor in his voice that betrays something closer to terror than reverence. His old master, Hux reasons, against the klaxons in his brain, did just make an attempt on his life. A new one might take some getting used to.  
  
"Kylo Ren," says Snoke. There it is: Hux has his verification. He doesn't care about the rest of this conversation. He shouldn't. "You've done well, my apprentice. Tonight the dark side of the Force saw a tremendous victory--a first step toward the balance you _will_ bring about."

 

Snoke's voice has an almost patronly warmth to it, something Hux has never heard--from the Supreme Leader. (From his father, though, he heard it--when the Commandant wanted something.) (That must be why it sets every nerve in his body on edge.)  
  
Ren glances up hesitantly. "Thank you, Master. I...Your teaching gave me the strength for it.” His eyes flicker nervously between the holo and the floor.

Snoke is quiet for a moment, then: “Are you _afraid_ , my apprentice?”

“No.” Ren swallows, raises his eyes slowly, like staring down a sun. His fingers work at his sides, curling and uncurling slowly.

Snoke laughs. It’s a low, awful, unfamiliar sound, through his nostrils. “A pity,” he says. “Fear, anger, pain, they’ll only fuel the darkness within you. Your training, my apprentice, will seek to draw them out, teach you to refine them and forge them into deadly weapons. But first, they must be felt. Must be _acknowledged_.”

Sometimes, Hux is tempted to roll his eyes at Snoke--he doesn’t _get_ the religious jargon, and it has little impact on his duties, or much of anything else, as far as he’s seen. He’d be tempted right now, if not for the bit about pain--passing through the crucible to emerge all sharp edges and carnivorous instincts (and fraying, just a little, around the edges of your mind). That’s a bit too familiar for flippancy.

“Master, forgive me--” Ren starts, but Snoke interrupts.

“None of that,” he says sharply, “Simply reflect on it in preparation for your training.”

“I look forward to it, Master.” Ren’s fists keep clenching and releasing.

"As do I.” Snoke’s assumed a faint, disquieting smile, hideous on his broken face. “In the meantime I hope the Lieutenant-General's briefings will be...satisfactory." Snoke’s gaze drifts in Hux’s direction."Yes, Supreme Leader--" Hux rotates the datapad back toward himself. "--I meant to inquire as to what exactly he _should_ be read into?"  
  
"The standard officer's indoctrination, Lieutenant-General: grand strategy, an overview of intelligence sources and methods, the trooper program.” Snoke pauses breathily. “And include Project Starkiller."  
  
"Starkiller? Supreme Leader, that's a nascent program--"  
  
"Brief him on it." No room for argument, apparently.

"Yes, Supreme Leader." Hux inclines his head.

"How far are you from the Supremacy?"  
  
"Still at least ten parsecs, Supreme Leader."  
  
"Until your arrival, then."  
  
"Sir."  
  
Snoke's image dissolves. Ren, still flexing his fingers, sits down.  
  
"So you aren't Ben Solo?"  
  
Ren’s hands are fisted on the desktop, knuckles bulging. He says nothing.

“Are you, or are you not? Tell me.”

Ren’s fists tighten. His nails must be digging into his skin. He stares through his hands like he was staring through Hux earlier, dark eyes an awful paradox of vacant and far too seeing.

“Cut the dramatics. I deserve to know who I’m talking to,” Hux says, fighting frustration in his own tone. “Are you Ben Solo?”

A hard swallow. Silence.

“Are. you. him.”

Ren clenches his fists again, as if involuntarily. The lights flicker: off and on in a meteor-flash. Hux hardly has time to register the cracks spreading through the fibroceramic of Ren’s mug before it’s in a pile of black and white shards on the duranium. The dregs leak onto the flimsiplast docs. Hux tries not to react.

As if awakening from a trance, Ren’s hands uncurl. He blinks at the remains of the mug, and doesn’t apologize.

“You just did that,” Hux says, carefully controlled, pulse racing with belated adrenaline. “You just did that with your mind.”

“Not on purpose.” Ren shrugs.

“Frankly, that’s even more alarming.” Hux folds his hands, perilously near the blaster. “I’ll get a cleaning droid to worry about it later.” He clears his throat. “Now that you’ve broken my good flatware, won’t you tell me who the _fuck_ you are?”

“You heard the Supreme Leader.”

“But you wouldn’t have identified as Ben Solo for no reason.” Hux sighs. “Did you what, kill the man and take his name?”

“No,” Ren says, half-defiantly.

“Please--” Hux isn’t too proud to say the word. “--just tell me. It’ll help me...tailor my briefing.”

Ren can surely hear the lie, but "Fine, then,” he says, and pops his lips. "I was Solo, and then I killed him, and now I'm not him."

"I'm sorry?"

If Snoke hadn't half-corroborated this identity crisis, Hux would be paging the psytechs right now.

"I- I can't explain it. I can't put it any clearer."  
  
"So you what, you- survived a suicide attempt?" _Hardly makes you special,_ Hux doesn’t add.

"No. Not like that, I just-" His lips form a thin line, and he shakes his head.  
  
It must be some kind of religious terminology. Brutal breed of mysticism--it's left the man in pieces.  
  
"It hurt," Hux observes, "whatever it was.”

"Like peeling a scab.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. People tend to look relieved once they pick off the dead skin, not shattered. He shakes his head.

“You could have told me as much from the start,” he says.

“Would you have believed me?” Ren looks up at him through those absurd eyelashes.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Hux takes a sip of his tea, now adequately cooled. “We should proceed with the briefing.”

The flimsiplast organizational charts aren’t much good tea-stained, so Hux pulls up the slides on his datapad, places the datapad beside the blaster, and rotates it toward Ren. Ren nods vacantly through the entire structure of High Command, and doesn’t remark even when Hux reaches the size and composition of the fleet.

Hux looks up from the fine blue lines of the Dreadnought schematic between them. “You aren’t hearing a word I’m saying.”

“A _Mandator IV_ -class Siege Dreadnought has two orbital cannons, twenty-six dorsal cannons, and a crew of two-hundred fifteen-thousand,” Ren parrots, without inflection. “I’m fine,” he adds, a bit faintly.

“And a typical _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyer?” It was the previous slide. Ren blinks.

“You’re on one,” Hux points out.

“I know that much,” Ren says, tone a little too blank to be defensive.

Gods. Ren’ll need to retain at least _some_ of this material, and that isn’t likely to happen when he’s sitting here in the echo of Snoke’s voice and the quiet of his own brain.

“Get up.” Hux pushes his chair backward and rises, pulling on his gloves and turning off his datapad.

“What?”

“Get up.” Hux rounds the desk, and on a whim, holds out his hand to Ren. “We’re making the rest of this a mobile briefing.”

Ren eyes his hand for a moment, then takes it, letting Hux pull him up. Hux ignores the jolt of heat that shoots through him at the contact. Must be some effect of touching a Force-user. Hux drops his hand, hoping his face hasn’t flushed.

“Okay?” says Ren at last, uncertainly.

Hux sighs. “You’re getting the grand tour.”

* * *

Once in the corridor, Ren’s gaze absently roams the panels, as if either trying to absorb them or imagine them away. Hux isn’t sure which, and doesn’t comment.

Instead he half-apologizes: “There won’t be sufficient time to see the entire ship before we reach the _Supremacy_ , but we can certainly hit the main attractions.”

“Alright,” says Ren. Tough audience.

They walk in silence to the bridge, and Hux offers him a few words of introduction once they reach it--nothing personal, just who sits where. The analysts on duty are trained better than to ask questions, or stare (too much). Ren nods along to Hux’s descriptions, and they eventually wind their way up to the viewport.

Outside, the stars streak by in a brilliant white blur, infinite pale scarring on the face of the void. Ren looks out for a minute, then places a hand on the transparisteel. He isn’t wearing gloves, and good _gods,_ he’s going to smudge it--but Hux says nothing for a moment. He doesn’t get the awe--he’s spent half his life at lightspeed--and he’d imagine someone with Ren’s background wouldn’t look so impressed, either.

But he lets Ren enjoy the view for a moment longer, then says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never been in hyperspace before.”

“No, I have. I just--” Ren doesn’t turn, but Hux watches his reflection gnaw its lip. “It looks different from here.”

“Better, I hope?”

“Bigger, anyway.” But he doesn’t tear his eyes away.

Hux’s reflection offers his a measured smile. “I’ll take it.”

They breeze through the intel suites next--documents & media exploitation, technical collections, dish maintenance, analytical production. Ren stays a bit glassy-eyed, a bit phantom-like. It isn’t like Snoke’s going to quiz him, but Hux still hopes he at least caught the basics of the intelligence cycle.

In the corridor again, their uniform boots click identically against the flooring.

After a few moments, Ren--shockingly--speaks up. “What time is it on this ship?”

Hux checks the chrono display on his datapad. “Fifteen hundred standard.” Hux pauses--and realizes. “Probably a solid ten or eleven hours ahead of your academy world, correct?”

“Yeah, I think.” Ren shuts his eyes briefly and runs a hand through his hair.

“I suppose I should ask if you’d like to get some sleep,” Hux says. _Or if you’d be_ able _to sleep._ Ren’s silent for a moment; the click of his boots doesn’t falter. When he replies, he seems to have caught both of Hux’s meanings.

“No, I couldn’t--my dreams--” He backsteps instantly. “I mean, it’s...been a lot. Tonight. Today. Whichever.”

Ren sounds exhausted; Hux can offer him one of two things: caf or melatonin. As he isn’t sure how well melatonin would combine with the Force, he makes an abrupt left.

“We’re going to the galley.”

“I’m not hungry,” says Ren.

The open entrance of the mess hall has already appeared before them, white light glinting silver off rows upon rows of low, empty tables. It seats a thousand in here, and this is just the officers’ mess.

"But do you like caf any better than tea?"

"I don't know-- Skywalker didn't keep much of it around at the Academy."  
  
"So you're _how old_ , and you've never been allowed to have caf?"  
  
"Twenty-two--"  
  
"Good." Hux hardly realizes he said it aloud.  
  
"Good?"  
  
Hux shrugs, though his face might possibly be on fire. Ren doesn’t look much younger than that, but it’s nice to be sure.

  
Ren gives him a bemused look. "But it isn't that I'm not _allowed_ \--"  
  
"Weren't." Hux cuts him off again. "You /weren't/ allowed."  
  
Ren's lips twitch, and he exhales through his nose in what Hux would call mock exasperation, were Ren anyone else. "Okay, it wasn't that I wasn't _allowed_ so much as it isn't advisable to regularly interfere with your physical or mental rhythm when you're still in training. I've had it a few times, on off-world missions with--" He doesn't trail off--more like abruptly severs his own sentence. Hux ignores this.  
  
"So you know how you take it, then?" he asks, leading the way through the maze of tables. A few cleaning droids hover around the mess hall, but it’s otherwise empty.

"I guess I do," says Ren.

"Let me guess--with an absurd amount of synthsweet?" Hux stops next to the bar of caf dispensers, synchronized touch screens blinking the same options.  
  
"With sugar, actually."  
  
"We don't have sugar," Hux says, pulling a flimsi cup from the dispenser below the machine. He hands it to Ren and gestures toward the screen. "You'll have to make do."  
  
Ren manages the dispenser with some agility (Hux figures they certainly didn't have one of _those_ at Skywalker's academy). In under a minute he's lifting the cup, fully lidded, from the base of the dispenser, and taking a sip.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Hux smiles thinly. "I imagine the Supreme Leader would want you fully alert for this next part.”

“Which is?” Ren drinks again, and the caf smells so good on his breath that Hux almost wants to make himself a cup. He resists the urge.

“The armory,” he says, and starts walking.

Ren follows, holding the flimsi cup with two hands, close to his body, like he did the tea mug. Hux can’t decide if it’s endearing or absurd. They’re soon back in the corridor, and Hux enters his access code at the turbolift nearby.

“It’s two decks below us,” he tells Ren as the paneling slide apart, and they enter the low-lit, black-gleaming space of the lift car. Hux keys in the right floor, and the doors shut.

Looking straight ahead, Ren speaks up. “I’m going to be getting a new--” A brief pause, and not for a gulp of caf. “--my own lightsaber soon. Your armory isn’t exactly relevant.”

Hux smiles. “You haven’t seen the armory.”

Ren doesn’t have time to answer before the lift dings, doors irising open. A few meters down the corridor, a pair of troopers are stationed outside the armory.

Hux presses his thumb to the bioreader on the wall, and the troopers seem to appraise Ren. Even behind their helmets, Hux can tell what they’re thinking: no stripes on his uniform sleeves, no officer’s cap, hair so far outside regulation he should be demoted on the spot--and no move toward the bioreader after Hux.

“He’s cleared,” Hux tells them, “just not yet coded. Newly commissioned officer.” _Or something like that._ Regardless, he’s with Hux--no choice but to let him pass.

The lights in the armory are out to save energy, but Hux dials them up to fifty percent as the doors whir shut behind himself and Ren. As the fluorescents flicker to life, they show out a long, low-ceilinged, immaculate, faintly glinting, and meticulously organized room. Durasteel racks hold blasters--pistols, rifles, anti-land crawler megas--and crates of inactive thermal detonators and fragmentation grenades. A few tightly sealed proton mines dominate shelving toward the back of the storeroom. In the far right corner, two AT-ATs are folded, gleaming white like a pachyderm graveyard.

Ren’s gaze roams the storeroom floor.

Hux clasps his hands behind his back. “Our modest collection,” he says, “here aboard the _Finalizer_ . The _Supremacy’s_ arsenal is even more extensive, but I doubt you’ll have time for a tour.”

Ren says nothing, just peers around the room over the lid of his caf cup. There’s curiosity in his expression but no awe. Of course Hux _isn’t_ disappointed. (He shouldn’t be. Ren doesn’t know what he’s looking at.)

Hux coughs. “I need to show you the weapons included in the indoc slides. Come on.” He unclasps his hands and leads Ren toward the first of several long racks of identical white rifles.

“The F-11D,” he says, and hefts one down. He points it at the floor and checks the safety before lifting it with both hands for Ren’s appraisal. “Standard issue for Stormtroopers. Removable stock assembly, magnatomic adhesion grip, integrated powerfeed instigator for optimal speed, J19 electroscope for enhanced targeting and night vision. Developed off of the Imperial E-11 for maximum kill rate.”

Ren looks at the weapon. “Matches the armor,” he says, nonplussed.

Hux doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t call Ren an ignorant son-of-a-bitch. Instead he asks him, with measured professionalism, if he’d care to examine it.

“You’d let me?” Ren raises his eyebrows, almost smirking. “I’m not too big a security risk to arm?”

“Given that we appear to be on the same side.” Hux proffers the rifle. “And that you haven’t yet made good on your threat to kill me without a weapon…”

“I didn’t say _kill_ \--”

“You didn’t have to, Ren.” It comes out half a sneer, and Hux has shortened the name before he realizes it. _Ren._ He finds himself mentally turning over its echo.

The man in question, however, doesn’t react. Ren’s balancing his caf cup on the blaster rack, wrapping one hand around the rifle’s grip and the other--around the power pack? He at least knows enough to point it downward, but--

Oh. Oh, _fuck._ Ren’s holding a weapon-- _wrong_ \--and _fuckfuckfuck._ Hux left his pistol on his desk. It probably wouldn’t do him much good if attacked by a Force user--and he’s still got a knife--but there’s a certain security that comes with carrying it. But whatever. For the moment he’ll fix the crisis at hand.

Ren lifts the weapon halfway to his shoulder with an experimental air, right hand still clinging to the power pack.

“That’s, ah-- you’ll,ah--” Hux starts, debating physical intervention. “You’ll want to put your other hand on the foregrip.”

“The where?” Ren stops mid-motion, glances at Hux.

“Just the- the part under the barrel.”

Ren’s fingers wrap around the body of the barrel.

“No, it’s--” Hux sighs. “Here.” He moves behind Ren and tentatively places his right hand over Ren’s. (He ignores how Ren’s grip--and stance--relax.) “Here,” he repeats, guides Ren’s fingers to the foregrip, and lets go. He steps back, on Ren’s right now.

Ren finishes raising the rifle and looks through the electroscope, pointing the weapon ahead at the rack. His finger’s off the trigger, and he holds the blaster for a minute, hands tight on the grips.

Looking at him in profile, Hux adds to Ren’s mental portfolio the fine set of his jaw, the way his hair brushes the uniform collar, the way his hands don’t shake. Then Hux’s face is prickling faintly with heat, and oh, right. He should also add _ignorant son-of-a-bitch._

Right.

“Still sure you want that lightsaber?” Hux says, when it’s been long enough. “Your...abilities...combined with a weapon like that--and that isn’t even the best we’ve got--would be--” He smiles thinly, and understates: “--good for the Order.”

Ren lowers the rifle, inadequately reshelves it, and picks up his caf again. “I prefer a lightsaber,” he says. “All the rest of this is...excessive. For me, anyway.”

Hux straightens the blaster in the rack. “A little better tech than back at your academy, then?”

“Lightsabers were really all we had, there.” Ren purses his lips, and there’s a sudden, passing sharpness in his eyes. “I haven’t touched a blaster in a decade. Haven’t needed to.”

Hux snorts, raises his eyebrows, folds his arms over his chest. “So your ”traditional combat experience’?” he says. “What, someone taught you to shoot as a kid?”

Ren studies his boots, and his grip tightens around the caf cup. “Something like that,” he says, so softly Hux can’t decide if he sounds bitter or melancholy.

So softly that Hux can manage a reply no more biting than, “Me, too.”

Ren looks up, roves his gaze over Hux’s face. “I bet,” he says, “Lieutenant-General _Hux_.”

There’s just the faintest emphasis on the surname, and just the faintest thumbprint of pressure on Hux’s mind. Memories surface in a cannon-quick salvo--the Order’s first cadets in grey uniform, Hux in black, blood on his hands, trailing down one bony wrist in a fine, warm stream.

Hux blinks, represses a shiver (or a thrill). Here. Now. Armory, half-light, all this firepower and all of it his. And Ren beside him, apparently some kind of fucking telepath. Ren beside him, _knowing_ , and not saying a word.

Hux swallows and clears his throat. “Well,” he says, and returns to the topic at hand with a sweeping gesture to the rifles,”I’m sure the Supreme Leader will let you have your pick of these, if you’d like to learn to use one and come into this millennium.”

Ren shakes his head firmly, immediately. “You don’t understand.” There’s something steely in his tone, something scornful. “I don’t _need_ any of this. I have the Force. A lightsaber is the only material weapon I use, and even that’s more...symbolic in nature.”

“Symbolic of what, that you’re…” Hux hates this jargon. “...one of the Force?”

Ren’s eyes flicker with amusement. “One _with_ the Force,” he corrects, lip twitching, “and I’m not, so no.  But it does represent--based on a long history of association--that I can use the Force. Which makes it fairly intimidating on the battlefield.”

Hux isn’t sure if that’s Skywalker’s bantha-shit or Snoke’s, but asking won’t be productive.

“Symbolic power,” he says, and leans against the blaster rack, “is only useful if it’s backed by _real_ power. Just look at the Republic--there’s an ancient symbol for you. Advanced weaponry is objectively more impressive than an antique, not to mention more effective.”

“Not when your ‘antique’ has the Force behind it,” says Ren.

“The Force. Naturally.” Hux sighs.”Still. No amount of magic tricks--or soft power--can replace a military advantage.”

“The Empire didn’t think so.”

“Oh, really?” Hux crosses his arms and figures he’ll save the Death Stars for his rebuttal.

“Look at Darth Vader,” Ren says, and his eyes are bright.”He didn’t have to carry a rifle and a pistol and a pair of hand grenades to keep his position. He was the greatest Force-user in history, and the most powerful man under the Emperor. ”

“Vader?” Hux openly scoffs. “I wouldn’t call him a paragon of political clout.”

“He had _spiritual_ clout. And it gave him tremendous political power.” Ren takes a step forward, voice tightening, just a bit.

Hux ignores this. “Vader was a _religious_ _fanatic_ with no agency or ambition. The only political power he had came from the fact that the Emperor knew he was spineless--no threat to himself. He took his orders, he followed them, he ate out of Palpatine’s hand.”

“He was loyal to his master. It earned him a measure of authority. There’s nothing _weak_ about that.” Ren steps forward again, so their boots are nearly touching. His hand goes up, and Hux sees the threat in it--the flick of the wrist in the office and his own hands suddenly nerveless.

Hux doesn’t move away, but still demurs: “I suppose that just depended on his goals--what he wanted, and if he was able to achieve it.” It’s possible for a goal itself to be weak, to be too paltry for someone with supposedly tremendous innate power, but Hux isn’t stupid enough to say so.

The hand goes down, but Ren’s tone stays defensive. “And there’s nothing wrong with that goal.”

“Serve your master and take as much power as he’ll give you.” Hux pops his lips, but he finds his tone softening to ask, “Is that why you’re here, then?”

Ren swallows visibly and looks at his and Hux’s feet. When he looks up to respond, the fire is gone from his voice and eyes.

“Sort of,” he says. “I mean-- All of that may follow. It should. But I’m--  Ren breaks off for a moment, staring at his cup (which must be empty by now). “I’m here to escape.”

“From Skywalker?”

Ren shakes his head, and his eyes are glistening again. “From all of it,” he says, a bit raggedly. “I need...something new.”

“So you left your lightsaber and your name.” _And razed to ashes the closest thing you had to a home._ Even blinking rapidly under his ridiculous eyelashes, there’s a feralness to Ren that should scare Hux more than it does.

“I had to,” Ren says. “It was the only way to start over _._ ”

“And you came to the right place, you know.” On a whim, Hux reaches out and tips up Ren’s chin. Their eyes meet, and Ren’s are dark oceans. “The Order’s in the business of _new_.”

Hux’s hand lingers for a moment, and almost involuntarily, his fingers uncurl to trace Ren’s jawline. As he drops his hand, Ren’s free hand rises, brushing the back of Hux’s glove. ( _Gods_ , why does Hux’s face keep heating up? At least it’s probably dark enough in here to hide the flush.)

“Show me some more,” Ren says, tremulously, as their hands fall to their sides, and Hux takes the slightest step backward.

Hux clears his throat. “Any preference?” He finds he’s smiling a bit. “We’ve got grenades, repeating blasters, walkers…Or--” He pauses. Ren’s probably seen enough in here, and-- “Are you actually a pilot, or is that more like your rifle skills?”

“My rifle skills are--” Ren starts, but cuts himself off as Hux raises his eyebrows. “But yes, Lieutenant-General Hux, I really am a pilot.”

“Good. Let’s go, then.”  .” Hux nods toward the storeroom’s exit. “ As they head for the doors, he adds, “And just--you’re outside the chain of command. You can make it just _Hux_. Less cumbersome, that way.”

“True,” is all Ren says.

Without looking at Ren, Hux enters his passcode, and the doors hiss apart.

* * *

“You’re already familiar with the _Upsilon_ -class.” Hux indicates the sleek shuttle from a distance as he and Ren enter the hangar.

The cavernous room is fairly quiet, given that the _Finalizer_ ’s in the middle of hyperspace, and there’s no immediate operational prep to be done. A few droids and troopers bustle around, tinkering with TIE wings, wiping down darkly tinted viewports. Two majors hover over the tractor beam projectors, tapping at datapads (seven-day cycle inspection, Hux knows).

“I’ve already been in the hangar,” Ren replies, but his gaze still roams the room, floor to vaulted ceiling.

“Yet somehow I’m not sure you got a very good look at it a few hours ago.” Hux lets his tone stray somewhere near teasing.

“I guess not.” That almost-smile tugs at Ren’s lips. “What’s to see?’ He tosses his half-crushed caf cup into a trash receptacle as they pass it.

“Unfortunately, we don’t carry any _Silencer_ s on the _Finalizer_ ,” Hux says, unsure why he’s leading with this. “If my flight manuals have it right, they’re similar to the model Darth Vader flew on occasion.”

“He did?” Ren looks at him keenly.

“In rare forays into modern warfare.” Hux ventures a smirk, then recovers himself before Ren’s expression can darken. “There are a few attached to the _Supremacy_.”

“You’ll show me when we get there.” It’s almost a question.

“If you’d like,” says Hux, and would shrug if it became his uniform. “But if you’d care to see our other TIE models in the meantime…?”

“Sure.”

“For your pleasure,” Hux says, with a showman’s air, “the TIE/fo--” He gestures to the decks on the opposite side of the hangar. “--and the TIE/sf.” He indicates the red-accented fighters nearest himself and Ren, and approaches the ladder to the second tier of decks. “Shall we?”

Ren nods and follows him up and into the open fighter. Standing aside and shutting the hatch behind them, Hux lets Ren--head slightly bowed to avoid the fighter’s ceiling--approach the pilot’s seat and front viewport. He doesn’t sit, but bends over the controls. His hands run over the instruments gingerly, with something Hux might call wonder.

It’s tight quarters in the TIE, so Hux stands almost directly behind him, also somewhat hunched. He rests one hand on the edge of the console, far enough from Ren’s roaming fingers.

“This our Special Forces fighter--”

“Hence ‘ _sf,’_ ” says Ren, a bit absently.

“Yes.” Hux drums his fingers against the console. “Which means it’s equipped with hyperdrive, deflector shields, a dual heavy turret for laser cannons, and an ST-7 and mag-pulse warhead-capable missile launcher.”

Ren strokes the missile toggle. “Any chance I could take one out?”

“That’ll be up to the Supreme Leader’s discretion, I imagine, not mine.”

“In terms of probability, then.” Ren looks up. “What do you think are the chances he’ll let me?”

“No idea.” Hux finds himself smiling. He leans a bit against the console and the paneling. “He hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with me with regard to...you, in general.”

“Clearly.” Ren’s tone is half-amused, but he looks back out the viewport. “And I don’t know why.” Through the tinting, the hangar outside is in twilight.

Hux has no reply, so he lets the silence linger for a moment before speaking up. “So would you care to see one of the standard TIEs? Not as roomy in those, but--”

Ren cuts him off. “Hux,” he says, and barely stumbles over the single syllable, “why are you doing this?” He’s turned toward Hux, neck bent for the ceiling and to meet Hux’s gaze.

“Doing what?” Hux says, not quite managing dismissiveness, “I’m supposed to be onboarding you. I have orders.”

“They didn’t seem to include a lengthy walking tour.” Ren’s voice is low, and Hux is suddenly aware of the pressure of Ren’s hand on his glove. He doesn’t risk a glance at the console.

“Well--”

“Thank you.”

“You seemed to need a distraction.” Ren probably can’t feel Hux’s racing pulse through the fabric. Hux swallows. “I couldn’t very well let you sit there and tear yourself apart.”

Ren doesn’t respond, then blinks once, with a strange half-surprised expression.

“What?” Hux says, half a challenge, again fighting the heat under his skin.

Ren’s teeth briefly tease his lower lip. His eyes are steady on Hux’s, and the pupils are a pair of voids. “No one’s said that before.”

Something clenches briefly in Hux's chest, but he shakes his head. “Well, it’s no way to run a military, with your assets psychologically--”

“Thank you,” Ren says again. And then his fingers are curling tighter around Hux’s, and his right hand is braced against the paneling above Hux’s shoulder, and he’s leaning down. And then--for the briefest moment--his lips are on Hux’s.

Hux would deepen it, bite down, but Ren’s already pulling back, still nose to nose, but eyes darting around Hux’s face. “I’m sorry, I--”

Hux reaches up to cup Ren’s chin for the second time today. “It’s fine.” He pulls Ren toward him again.

“How dark is the tint in here?” Ren murmurs.

“Dark enough.”

“Good.”

Ren’s lips are dry, and he tastes like caf with too much synthsweet. Hux can’t bring himself to care. His hand slips from Ren’s chin to his throat, to curl around Ren’s neck and tangle into the heavy softness of his hair.

They don’t kiss long enough before Hux’s comlink buzzes, and he pulls back, catching his breath before answering. It’s just audio, thank the Force. (Hux supposes he can do that now.)

“Bridge to Lieutenant-General Hux. We’re showing the _Supremacy_ two parsecs out.” The comm crackles briefly. “It appears to have advanced toward us. Intel is requesting you on the bridge to review a brief and report on the assignment, at your convenience.”

Hux represses a sigh. “Roger that. Inform them I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.” The connection clicks out, and Hux re-stows his comlink.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Ren, whose hands are back at his sides. “I have to--”

“It’s alright, I…” Ren’s gaze drops. “...should meditate before I meet with Snoke.”

“Be careful,” Hux says. He isn’t sure about meditation, but it sounds like the opposite of distraction--of what Ren needs.

Ren looks back up at him with a becoming sort of softness. He doesn’t quite answer Hux, says instead, “More… of _this_ later?”

Hux squeezes Ren’s hand before reaching up to release the hatch. It clicks open. “I hope,” he says, clambering out of the fighter to blink in the hangar’s low chemical lighting.

He glances behind him at Ren, tall frame unfolding as he leaves the cockpit and stands, hair falling in his face. He brushes it out of the way. His hands are steady, and his eyes are clear. He follows Hux down the steps in silence, but the air seems to sing between them.

_Later._ Gods, Hux hopes so.

What Hux understood to be a routine asset collection mission has begun to look like something much better.

**Author's Note:**

> Title text shamelessly lifted from Wilde's 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol,' though the comma is mine.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://imperial-huxness.tumblr.com).


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